


30 Days of Lovin'

by NeonCharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonCharlie/pseuds/NeonCharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock one-shots, most in separate universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Days of Lovin'

**Author's Note:**

> So I took this challenge post/31442590860/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge on Tumblr, except they aren't really drabbles. And I didn't really do them in thirty days. Oops.

The nearly mournful, dulcet tones of a violin and its skilled master faded into a fast, heated, one could almost say sensuous tune that carried across quiet hum of 221b Baker Street. The bow danced rapidly across the silvery strings, each note filled with suppressed desire and longing, and its player arching away from it with a buzzing enthusiasm. His bow began to still and finally slowed to a stop, a long, sated note ringing in the flat.

An outline stood starkly against the bleak greyness of the overcast sky, each thick curl and lean limb of its owner's equally lean form (in a bathrobe, no less) defined against the window frame. One arm held the violin's neck gently, the other poised as if to start another ardent melody. His lips pursed slowly in thought, his robe fluttering lightly at his slender ankles.

"You might as well ask, John. Your hesitance is... Irritating."

John fumbled a bit with his tea at having been called out. He really shouldn't be surprised this far into his new life with Sherlock, he thought fleetingly, of course his all-deducing flatmate deduced the thought out of his mind, the deducing... sod. Usually, he found his brilliance simply that, brilliant, but today, it was... Well, it was rather peevish.

"It's not... It's just... Well..."

"Out with it, John."

"Irene? Really? Still on her?" John forced out, sounding more exasperated and upset than he'd like to admit.

Sherlock turned to him, dark curls swinging lightly.

"And why in the world would it be of consequence to you?" A light frown set itself on his lips.

John opened his mouth for a biting reply, but stopped for a moment. Why did it matter? Because he was worried for Sherlock's well-being? Well, he always was; he had been the one to force his flatmate to eat and sleep and enforce the three-nicotine-patches-only rule and such. And yes, he was concerned with the emotional aspect of him, but after he'd lost contact with Irene after a three or four months, his urges to express himself via violin had begun to fade, taking John's distress over the matter with it. He knew Sherlock had taken up his violin on an impulse and thought that would be as fleeting as any other.

Then why? Perhaps it was the Woman herself. Yes, that must have been it. The Woman, with those cruel grey-blue eyes and perfect form, the way her slender, lithe body seduced every man she'd probably ever encountered, excepting no man, turning the head of even the most amazing, brilliant, beautiful man on the planet earth with one glimpse whereas he, John, couldn't even be spared a passing glance-

No, no, he was simply worried over Sherlock's health.

He looked back at his best friend, once again silhouetted by the the London skyline, violin in hand.

John sighed, resigning to the couch, not bothering to inquire about the epiphany Sherlock was evidently having. Grabbing the remote, he switched on the telly to chase his confusing thoughts from his straight-as-a-board mind. Colours flashed onto his face as he reclined into the familiarity of the cushions, sighing gently as the images lulled his mind from headache-material thoughts and irrational emotions.

The couch dipped under the added weight of his flatmate, closer, John noticed, than usual. He spared a look at the consulting detective's profile, a perplexed frown spreading over his face. Sherlock never watched with him. He said the detective shows that John liked so were 'dull and predictable.' Ah well. To each his own.

Thirty minutes passed.

"I wasn't thinking of Irene," he stated simply, offering nothing else. "Also, it's quite clear it was the housekeeper. Look at her shoes! The scuffs are most prominent on the right side of her housecleaning shoes where she brushed against the wall, presumably avoiding the body, but are whiter than they started out; it's clear she bleached them after she was unsuccessful in keeping his blood from her foot wear. These detectives are useless." All the time he was speaking, his hand crept across the length of the cushion to reach John's. Each slim finger slipped between John's, curling themselves around his palm as if they were made to be there.

"And uh... Who, exactly, were you thinking of during that..." John cleared his throat, "Passionate tune?"

Sherlock merely stared into an advertisement of some granola bar, the corner of his mouth tipped upward mischeviously.


End file.
